A Simple Plan

K. dumped me on Monday. He’s been acting cranky for weeks, but he didn’t say it was anything about us, so I didn’t think (too much) that it was us making him cranky. “I’m tired of relationships,” he said. Well, I get tired of relationships too, but I rarely cut them off once they’re started. I continue to try, although sometimes too hard or for too long. I’m human. It’s what I do.

So my personals ad is back up on that Internet dating site. After several months' absence, I had forgotten how annoying so much of it is. It’s annoying to carefully craft a profile, only to have it completely disregarded by men I have nothing in common with and who are 10 years over my stated age range, but who figure they’ll give it a shot and contact me, repeatedly, anyway. It’s annoying to take the time to write thoughtful introductory e-mails and send them to what seem to be thoughtful, intelligent men, whose bills I seem to fit, only to have them ignore my heartfelt missives. At least I answer the senior citizens and tell them I’m looking for someone closer to my own age.

But the worst are the ones who instant message right off the bat.

“Hi,” Jaguar526 messaged me last night (not his real handle). “You put your 4'11. Are you really that short?”

“No,” I fired back, regretting the absence of a sarcasm point on my keyboard. “I added two inches to make myself seem even more imposing.” I mean, c’mon. Who lies that they’re not quite five feet tall?

“Really?” he replied. Yep, a sarcasm point would come in handy.
“No, I’m teasing. I really am that short.”
“You must like short men.”
“I like some of them. Some of them I don’t.” I finished paging through my search results on the dating section of the site, which are pretty much the same as my search results on the relationship section.
“What kind of man do you like?”
“Tall, dark, and handsome,” I wrote, even though 1) I know I’m not supposed to write in clichés and 2) I like tall, redheaded, and handsome too. I hadn’t looked at his profile yet, so I clicked on it.

Oops. He’s 5’2”.

“Heres my picture,” he typed. From the camera angle, it’s obviously a self-portrait. He’s not bad looking, with wisps of brown hair across his forehead, blue eyes, a cleft chin, and a crooked nose. He seems to be in a kitchen. “Do you like my picture?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied. “You’re cute. And I see you like cereal.”
“Im J.,” he said.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Kim.”
“Im loanley.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Come have a drink with me.”
“You mean right now?” Uh-oh. There’s a feeling that I’ve already inadvertently encouraged him a little too much, just by answering him.
“Yes.”
“J., you live in Upper Sandusky. That’s in Ohio.”
“Its not far.”
“I’m in Michigan.”
“Its not far.”
“It’s too far for tonight.”
“Please come. Im loanley.”

I am torn between pity and loathing. I know what desperate loneliness feels like, like hanging onto a cold granite cliff by your split and bloody fingernails, and your chest is hollow and the wind is howling and the buzzards are circling overhead. I have frightened away good men with too-soon displays of saggy, pallid, naked need. And I know it’s not the way to go, because I have no more desire to get sucked into someone else’s need than they wanted to get pulled down into mine.

“I’m sorry,” I tell J. “I’m not going to have a drink with you tonight.”

Perhaps I take this all too seriously. Perhaps my problem is that I veer between treating it all like a joke and treating it all like the end of days.

Before I ended my online session, I read one gentleman's profile that did catch my eye. “Enjoy the Haiku” is his headline from Edmonton, Alberta:

Find the One, then leave.
It was such a simple plan,
but I am still here.